


A Hell of Heaven and a Heaven of Hell

by StarlightAsteria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Angst, Enemies to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 07:39:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12883206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria
Summary: Commander Jaime Lannister does not want the Rock; does not want a wife; does not want children. He is a soldier. He is his father's heir. And he does not appreciate being summoned home from the Volantene Campaign because his father is dying.But Tywin will not be outmanoeuvred.And that is how Jaime comes upon his father's young widow.





	A Hell of Heaven and a Heaven of Hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tommyginger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/gifts).



> Hi everyone!
> 
> Tommyginger suggested I write a Regency!AU in which Tywin remarries to Sansa, and this is what I came up with
> 
> A little context: the Volantene Campaign was heavily inspired by Wellington's war in Portugal during the Napoleonic Wars. Jaime is also an only child in this. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

 

JAIME LANNISTER

 

_somewhere on the Demon Road, between Mantarys and Volantis_

 

He knows his men are thoroughly tired and sick of this hell; of the sun beating down on them relentlessly, of the dry red dust that sticks to the back of their throats; but after five years on campaign, aiding their Essosi allies against the Targaryen tyrant currently cutting a conquering swathe through the continent with her sellswords and Dothraki horde, leaving only destruction in her wake, Jaime and his men have become, not inured against it, exactly, but used to it. Used to this heat, that means they have long since discarded their heavy wool coats; smart though they are, in favour of the much lighter linens and leathers typically worn by the locals.  

 

He is torn from his reflections by the sight of his batman riding hell for leather down the column towards him, and he wants to reprimand Addam for such recklessness - he’s like to blow the horse in this infernal weather, but the expression on his face, serious and drawn, stops Jaime from doing anything of the sort, and a heavy ball of lead settles in the soldier’s stomach. 

 

Jaime’s batman says nothing, only extending a folded square of parchment to his commanding officer, whilst his horse snorts, flanks heaving. Jaime takes the proffered parchment, turns it to unfold it, and freezes. It is sealed with the Lannister seal; but with black wax instead of red, and he knows immediately that this letter cannot be ignored like he has ignored so many of the previous ones. Teeth grit, he slips a thumb under the triangular edge, and opens the missive.

 

_Nephew,_

_You must return to the Rock at once. Your father is dying._

_Come home, Jaime. Come home._

_Uncle Kevan_

 

 

* * *

 

 

_four weeks later_

 

The trepidation he feels when his carriage makes the final turn into the bay, and he sees Lannisport on the shore in front of him, and the Rock rising proudly above the city, makes him nauseous. That the banners are not yet flying at half-mast, edged in black, as they would have been had his father already been dead, reassures him slightly; but the notion of a deathbed interview with his father is something he cannot grasp, cannot understand, and he ignores the concerned looks his batman (and friend, too, if he’s honest) throws in his direction, as he remembers the last time he and his father spoke, five years before, when he made his decision to fight in the Volantene campaign. 

 

It is not a happy memory.

 

_“I must go, Father. It is my duty. The General relies upon me; I am one of his best commanders - I must go, and you will not stop me.”_

 

_“Have you any notion of what the Dothraki are like, my son? This will not be like your previous campaigns. They are savages.”_

 

_“I am sworn to His Majesty’s army, and it is my duty.”_

 

_“And what of your duty to House Lannister? What of your duties as my heir? You are almost thirty, Jaime. It is past time you married, and had a family of your own.” His father’s voice, though quiet, had been dangerous, and he’d flinched and then immediately been furious. How dare his father make him, a grown man, feel like little more than a wayward child?_

 

_“So I can treat them in so contrarian a manner as you have treated me?” Jaime had scoffed. “No, thank you. The army is my family; and I will be quite content should I never marry. I do not want a wife. I do not want the Rock. I do not want children. I’m a soldier, not a landowner, not a Lord!”_

 

_There had been a long, tense silence, and then his father had sighed deeply, the set of his shoulders slumping. “Then we have nothing more to say to one another.” And then the great Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the West, had dismissed him with a single, sharp motion of the hand, and Jaime had felt sick with mingled fury and hurt._

 

It had felt, at the time, as though a line had been irrevocably drawn, and Jaime knows, with an apprehension that surprises him, that he is now going to find out exactly what that line was. He supposes, had he opened any of the previous missives, he would know, but the fury and hurt had cut too deep; had still been too fresh for him to even contemplate such a thing. 

 

The lump in his throat, the knot in his stomach only grow as the carriage winds its way up the winding road to the castle, and as they roll over the first drawbridge, trotting through the courtyards before finally halting in front of the columned portico of the newest house, built two hundred years before, and though adorned with the most extravagant number of windows Jaime has ever seen, the style is somehow not incongruous with the rest of the massive fortress. 

 

Somewhat shakily, he exits the carriage, only to be greeted by his father’s most trusted retainers, and his own batman’s uncle. He waves them out of their bows, hurriedly asking after his father. This is not the time for formalities. 

 

“This way,” the butler motions, and Jaime follows gratefully, taking off his hat. The mood is sombre; but Jaime sees new additions here and there - a new console in the entrance hall, drapes that have been replaced, and he frowns in consternation. He asks the butler who is responsible - it cannot have been his _father,_ of all people - and the answer he receives stops him in his tracks.

 

“Lady Lannister?” he asks hollowly. “I was unaware Father had remarried.”

 

“Lord Lannister must have informed you, sir, surely?” 

 

“Letters are somewhat difficult to receive on campaign,” Jaime replies stiffly, feeling all the awkwardness of the situation. 

 

“Oh yes; some three years past, or so, to the daughter of Lord Stark,” the retainer replies, relieved. 

 

Jaime nods slowly, digesting the information as they walk down the first floor corridor. “And what is Lady Lannister like?” 

 

“Very kind, very gentle, especially with the twins. Lord Lannister is fond of her.”

 

“Twins?” 

 

“Yes, Lord Lannister was very pleased to have sired another son and a daughter too.”

 

“I see,” Jaime replies quietly. “I had no notion of it.” _So Father has finally replaced me, as he always threatened. He has his children and a young, pretty, noble wife with impeccable connections to boot - not that Father would ever settle for anything less. What, then, am I doing here?_ But he has come too far too turn back now, and so he nods to the footman outside his father’s chambers, and waits to be announced. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

He never imagined he would ever see his father - that god amongst men - look the way he does in this moment; propped up in bed with far too many pillows, body weak and frail, though one glance tells him his father’s mind is still as sharp as ever. In that same glance, however, he sees just how close to the end his father is. The knowledge hangs between them; acknowledged through unspoken, and Jaime bows, swallowing down his discomfort.

 

“My Lord Lannister,” he says, voice seemingly overloud in the room, deserted except for himself and his father.

 

“Jaime,” his father rasps, his tone even. “You’ve come back; though it only took my being on my deathbed.” Jaime winces, but Tywin Lannister is already continuing, imperious even now. “No matter; I have summoned you here to extract a promise from you.”

 

Jaime makes a strangled sound in his throat, but his father quells him with a single glance. “The gods know I have been unable to exert my authority over you; but in this I will brook no opposition.”

 

“Father, I - ” Jaime begins, now thoroughly unsettled. There is something in his father’s tone that he is unable to place, and this throws him off-balance. 

 

“Sit.” Tywin Lannister points to the chair next to the bed, and Jaime can do nothing except obey, his palms resting awkwardly on his kneecaps. “You will protect my wife; you will look after my children; and you will swear to do so.”

 

Jaime can only gape at the elder man in astonishment. 

 

“Kevan can’t do it; he’s old enough himself and has his own family to look after; you are the only person I can entrust with such a charge,” his father continues relentlessly, and Jaime finally finds his voice. 

 

“I am a soldier; I know nothing of squiring a woman around and even less of children - what use will I be?”

 

“Once the period of mourning is over, and possibly even before that, knowing the kind of caddish young bucks swanning around the country at the moment, Sansa will be highly sought after as a wife, and I have no intention of letting my young son, my daughter, be raised by a man who is not my family,” His father retorts sharply. “You will do this.”

 

“So even your death will not stop your control over my life,” Jaime mutters bitterly. “I must now and forever be at your disposal, it seems.”

 

“Control over your life?” Tywin Lannister looks at him searchingly, and Jaime sees in his father’s eyes the familiar glint of disappointment, and bile rises in his throat as he braces himself; though for what blow he knows not. “No, Jaime. You’ve made your point; you have never wanted the Rock, so my young son Leonel shall have it instead. You do not want my title, so, again, Leonel shall have it instead. I will not insist you marry or have children. You have your mother’s estate, of course; you are entirely free to do as you see fit. Go back to war, if that is truly what you wish.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He goes through the funeral in a daze, though he has not touched a drop of wine; and yet his head whirls, his ears buzz, his fingers tremble in their leather gloves, and his shoulders are stiff in his military dress uniform. 

 

He sees his father’s widow, her vivid russet hair shining even under her black veil, as she stands, a demure statue beside his father’s carved sarcophagus. He sees two young, blond-haired children clutch at her skirts, and something inescapably bitter lodges within him, so he stalks off before he makes an idiot of himself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She finds him on one of the balconies, contemplating his glass of wine, as the sun is setting over the sea in a riot of reds and golds and purples. Though he will not admit it to anyone; this sight - this glorious sight - is one of the things he missed fervently on campaign. The crashing waves upon rocks; the sun bleeding upon the water; that is home. 

 

She is very beautiful; he will admit that easily. The striking colour of her hair, her eyes, her graceful, willowy form, her milky skin; the symmetry of her features; but though he is curious about her he finds he has no particular wish to speak with her, not today.

 

“Your father spoke of you often, you know,” she says softly, and he laughs hollowly, with a bitter kind of surprise. 

 

“I find that hard to believe.” He will not allow her to mock him. “I was a perpetual disappointment; and eventually he found the means to replace me.”

 

She continues, undeterred. “He followed every newspaper report of your campaign; he recorded every medal you won for your valour. It did not matter that his letters returned to him unopened - ” he jolts in surprise at that, and Sansa Lannister flashes him a quick, courtly smile, devoid of warmth. “Oh, yes, the letters are still in a drawer of his desk. No, he did not give up until you refused to promise him what he asked.”

 

“I had every right to refuse; I was summoned here not so he could take his leave of me, but so I could become a glorified bodyguard to you and your children,” he retorts, stepping closer to her, fists clenched. 

 

“Then why are you still here?” she raises her chin defiantly. There is more than a hint of accusation in her features, and it sparks something within his chest. 

 

“This is my home,” he replies darkly, and he is suddenly, vaguely aware that he is close enough to her to see the violet flecks in her blue eyes. He catches himself admiring the flash of anger in her expression; despite her polite demeanour, he is coming to realise that she has a spine of steel; but more than that, she has spirit, and he is furious with himself for being attracted to her.  

 

“Not anymore; it’s Leonel’s now.”

 

She leaves him gaping after her, vibrating with rage, as the sun sets; and he tries to tell himself he doesn’t care. He never wanted the Rock; nor his father’s title, and he is a soldier who only feels alive on campaign; but the Rock was always his home. The thought of it, rising from the cliffs as it has done for thousands of years and as it will do for thousands more, has always been strangely comforting to him as he courts death in the form of enemy bayonets and sabres and cannon fire. 

 

But this Lady Lannister has managed to do what no other soldier has ever done. She, a slip of a woman fourteen years his junior, has cut him to the quick; and damn him, he does _care._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He passes a sleepless night, but waves Addam’s concerns away as he bathes and shaves and dresses, and then he is somewhat bemused to find himself struck with the fancy of revisiting the haunts of his childhood; his mother’s garden - a haven of shaded trees, carved topiaries, classical statues and fountains, and he munches upon an apple as he treads the familiar paths all the way to the end of the garden, where a sandstone pavilion looks over the sea, and stops dead in his tracks.

 

Lady Lannister is seated in the shade, feeding her children, laughing. She is alone; there are no servants, and he feels once again horribly out of place, even as he shoves the irrational well of hurt he feels away - this was his mother’s garden; where _he_ had breakfast with _her_ as a child. He feels like the intruder now; and he resents Sansa Lannister bitterly for it, and he makes to stride away, but he is not fast enough, it seems, because she catches sight of him, an uneasy expression flitting briefly over her countenance before her face smooths into what he now recognises as her courtly mask, and he is immensely irritated by it. 

 

“Commander,” she calls, inclining her head, and Jaime has no choice but to reciprocate, bowing.

 

“Lady Lannister,” he replies. 

 

“Commander, will you not join us?”

 

It is too much, suddenly, and he speaks before he thinks, flinging the words at her, only knowing that he wants to unsettle her as she has unsettle him. “This was my mother’s garden. I think not,” he replies coldly, and he sees her shock before he spins smartly on his heels and turns back the way he came. 

 

Her expression; unguarded, glimmering with hurt, remains branded in his mind for the rest of the day, and he despises himself for the guilt he begins to feel. _What is wrong with him?_ He does know how to be gallant, he does know how to treat people fairly - the soldiers under his command can attest to that - but somehow he is incapable of it when in her company - she has a singular talent, it would appear, for wrenching his insides and confusing him and infuriating him and -

 

 

* * *

 

 

He stares down at the letters, unopened, stamped, each and every one of them, with crimson red wax, and the Lannister lion, and picks them up without thinking and suddenly he has no idea what to do next, so he takes them back to his chambers, and tosses them carelessly onto his bed. 

 

He goes for a long, furious ride, then spars with Addam until they both collapse with exertion, bleeding from the very shallow cuts on their stripped torsos, but nothing seems to quell his agitation, and in the bath that evening, he resolves to be gone back to his regiment, back to war, at first light. 

 

His manners have not entirely deserted him, so he sends a note to Lady Lannister and to his uncle Kevan, informing them of his plans. 

 

_I prefer to go myself before I am banished,_ he thinks acidly, ignoring the way his stomach drops to his feet at the thought.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He is no stranger to early starts; and he is ready in no time at all, but he’s forgotten how much more flexible the civilian conception of time is and finds himself pacing back and forth in front of the portico waiting for his carriage to be loaded and brought round so he can be on his way, with all the patience and goodwill of a lion in a cage, and so he is utterly startled when he hears his name. 

 

“It seems I must bid you farewell, Commander,” she says quietly, and he whirls around, swallowing unsteadily when he sees the informal manner of her dress. 

 

“Yes, well, I’d imagine you’re quite eager to get rid of me, and you will have your wish when this blasted carriage is brought round.” She looks quite bewildered by the acrid reply, and he shuts his eyes in frustration. He can be polite. “Thank you for extending the hospitality of your son’s home.”

 

She pales and twists her hands in the fabric of her dress. “I fear we got off upon the wrong foot, Commander.” They are distracted by the rumble of the carriage and he turns to go, but her next sentence - 

 

“Might we begin again, sir? Might we part as friends?”

 

_Friends?_ The idea is utterly ludicrous, of course. How can he be _friends_ with his father’s widow? A woman so - he feels many things for her, but he is entirely confident that friendship is not and will never be one of them, and he laughs mockingly. 

 

“My lady,” he replies coldly, “Tywin Lannister may have brought us into company with one another, but we will never be friends.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

She haunts him as he rides for the capital and from there takes ship back across the Narrow Sea back to his regiment; and he cannot shake the notion that he has disappointed her, and it unsettles him, torments him. He wakes, feeling dizzy and nauseous to his stomach, realising that she has acquired a power over him which was previously only held by his father, and his resentment deepens, at the same time as he begins dreaming of her in ways that are decidedly more… stimulating. He comes to the belated realisation that he really has been quite cruel to her, and he sits at his travelling desk, quill poised, a fresh piece of paper sitting in front of him, and attempts to write a letter of apology, but the words never come and his frustration grows. 

 

By the time he docks, he is aware of having become an absolute beast in his demeanour (even Addam has taken to giving him a wide berth) and he is absolutely ready to vent his fury upon the enemy. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

It is the greatest of ironies, therefore, that he once more finds himself in company with Lady Lannister at a ball in the capital held a year and a half later to celebrate the Westerosi victory in the Volantene Campaign; that he is being granted yet another medal for his bravery, and that the loss of his sword hand necessitates his immediate retirement from military life.

 

He now finds himself doubly useless: his military career made him useless to his father, to his father’s wife and their children, and his very actions during his military career have made him useless to the military. 

 

Everyone is congratulating him on his victory, on the honours and prize money he has gained, as well as pointedly looking away from his right sleeve, and he suddenly cannot stand it any more. He cannot stand their hypocrisy; cannot stand the notion that they celebrate when they remain so unaware of the cost, the real cost of this victory, and he barrels out of one of the open glass doors onto one of the terraces of the Red Keep, tearing frantically at his cravat, only to come face to face with Lady Lannister. 

 

It is difficult to know who is more startled, more embarrassed, and after a long, awkward pause, Jaime remembers to bow over her hand, murmuring “Lady Lannister,” as he does so, vaguely noting how dainty her hand is in his. 

 

He makes some stilted enquiry about her health, and that of her children’s, and then, because he hates this stiff, uncertain silence, he speaks again. “I tried to write, you know. Many times.” Her expression is incredulous. “To apologise,” he hastens to explain, and the ice in her gaze softens. “I treated you abominably when we first met, and I am sorry for it. I spent so long on campaign that the strictures and niceties of polite company became quite strange to me. I will do whatever is in my power to make amends.”

 

“Then I accept your apology, Commander.”

 

He laughs bitterly. “I’m not a Commander, not any more.” He holds up his right arm. “Not with this.”

 

Her eyes widen. “I am so sorry,” she says, and somehow, she is sincere, he senses, unlike everyone else who has offered their condolences. 

 

He shakes his head. “Not your fault.”

 

They stand in silence, side by side, listening to the raucous sounds of revelry from within the ballroom, but it is a more relaxed sort of silence, not the tense silence of their previous interactions. 

 

“Where are you staying whilst you are in the capital?” she asks eventually, voice hushed. 

 

“The General, Sir Arthur, kindly offered to put me up in his guest bedroom,” he replies. 

 

“You should stay at Lannister House.”

 

He swallows unsteadily, shifting on his feet. “I would not wish to impose.”

 

“You could never. You’re family. Stay with us, Jaime,” she entreats him softly, and he is lost, as simply as that. It is the first time she has ever said his name, and it almost brings him to tears, to his knees, and he shudders, trying to control himself.

 

“Thank you,” he bows eventually, his voice not as steady as he would like.

 

Later on, as he watches her dance with some foppish young buck, he realises what the swooping, twisting sensation in his chest and stomach is. 

 

Somehow, he’s managed to fall in love with her. He is fourteen years her elder, far below her in terms of status, and a cripple to boot. Not to mention the fact that he is aware that she cannot possibly feel anything more for him than the barest tolerance. 

 

How utterly inconvenient. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The realisation that he has fallen in love with her makes him ungainly and tongue-tied in her presence, but he tries to be as kind to her as possible, and it begins to pay off. She is less guarded in his company, but it is in her children’s that _he_ feels most at ease. Despite the fierce wrenching of his heart every time he is in their presence (they both have the golden Lannister hair but Leonel has the Lady’s blue eyes and Leonor has her father’s emerald green). He is thirty years younger than his siblings, and being introduced as _brother_ feels wrong, so to them he is simply Jaime. 

 

Leonel and Leonor do not care that he has a gold prosthetic hand; they are quite happy to clamber all over him in the garden just the same. They are quite happy to show him around the garden, and he is happier than he admits to trail after them. Their acceptance of him loosens something tight in his chest, even as his yearning intensifies. The mirage is so vivid, so sharp as to cut. Leonel and Leonor could be his own children. With _her._ The grief that such a notion is impossible cuts him, again and again, and he begins to live in that garden, that summer, in a state of such mingled misery and ecstasy that he has difficulty separating the two. 

 

He accompanies Lady Lannister to the opera, the theatre, the museums, whenever she needs a male escort; her brothers sometimes provide the office, too, but he never escorts her to balls; he simply cannot stand it. The gossiping, the insipid conversations, the staring when people catch sight of his golden hand. So he only watches as she descends the stairs in ballgowns each more beautiful than the last, his heart catching in his throat as he offers her a very proper bow, and she has lately taken to offering him a small smile in return. 

 

He watches, too, as gentlemen call on her in the mornings; he quickly learns to make himself scarce upon those occasions, preferring instead Leonel and Leonor’s company. She notices he does it, of course. She’s clever, Lady Lannister is, and she watches him go out into the garden, frowning, and he doesn’t know what to make of her reaction. He notices the way, after she introduces her children to her suitors; the way they invariably cease to call; and the melancholy that sets in is one he longs to be able to appease. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The weather turns and they make their way back to the Rock. He is nervous, he thinks, the memory of his last visit weighing heavily on him. He only realises Lady Lannister has noticed this after he has handed her down from the carriage, all their luggage has been unloaded, and they are standing about in the entrance hall. 

 

He doesn’t precisely know what to do with himself now, and he is not expecting the Lady’s words in the slightest. 

 

“I’ve had your normal chambers prepared.” He understands her subtext quite clearly - _this is your home too -_ but what he doesn’t understand is why. He does not dare ask that. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, he does declare himself, and makes a complete cake of himself, as he is wont to do around her, it seems. They are in his mother’s garden, walking with her hand tucked around his elbow, Leonel and Leonor scampering joyfully ahead of them, and suddenly the ache in his heart is so acute that it robs him of breath, and he knows he can hide how he feels no longer. 

 

“Lady Lannister,” he begins, stopping in the middle of the path. “Lady Lannister, Sansa. I can hide how I feel no longer.” She pulls her arm away, and he feels his heart sink - but damn him! he will say it. “I have fallen in love with you.”

 

She stares at him in blank, gaping shock. 

 

He can’t hold her gaze, panic and despair closing his throat. “I love you,” he repeats, swallowing. “And if I had any hope of my suit being successful I would ask you to marry me,” he continues awkwardly. 

 

She shakes her head, eyes wide.

 

“But I know it to be impossible,” he finishes sadly. He doesn’t need to hear her say the words; she has told him her answer. He fiddles with his cuffs. “I’ll go,” he chokes out. “You won’t have to see me ever again.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He is halfway to the stables before - he feels a short tug on his left cuff, and the motion make him spin around before he is aware of what he is doing. To his consternation, she is there, and she is stepping towards him, and he doesn’t understand, because -

 

“Oh, you dear man,” she murmurs, lifting her hands to cradle his cheeks and he gulps, searching her eyes desperately. “I love you too, Jaime.”

 

And then she is in his arms and he can only - he struggles to understand her words. “You love me?” he says, bewildered.

 

“Yes,” she smiles radiantly. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

 

And then she kisses him.  

 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts?


End file.
